Needs
by payroo
Summary: As a casteless dwarf, Faren Brosca knows better than to question what few pleasures life affords. But sometimes it gets more complicated than that, especially when it comes to his questionable relationship with Leske.


Their only rule is that they never, ever talk about it.

It's not as if either of them could afford even the cheapest of casteless whores, and most girls prefer to save their wombs for nobler seed anyhow. But they have needs that need to be fulfilled: a hot meal, a flagon of ale, a place to sleep. This is only another primal need, nothing more than that. Another animal urge in the lives of the casteless.

He's not sure when it starts becoming more than that for him.

There's no question in his mind that's all it is to Leske, as his partner-in-crime tumbles women if he can help it. Faren is just a last resort, a step up from a hand and many steps down from a woman.

What matters in their arrangement is that they're always available, no questions asked. Unless the other is currently arrested. Or unless the other has another lay. Other than that, it works smoothly and they usually end in each other's burly arms at least once or twice a week.

But there comes a day when he can't do it anymore. He can't just pull up his pants and walk away, only to go about Beraht's usual business the very next day together. When Leske accosts him, he mumbles something about having other plans for that night.

Leske's bushy eyebrows shoot up. "And you didn't invite me? You sneaky bastard. Have fun, I guess. I'll be greasing up the old nug myself then," he chuckles lewdly, punching Faren on the shoulder.

"Much too much information," Faren rolls his eyes and punches him back. "Anyway, see you tomorrow for the job."

He spends the rest of the day listening to Rica practice reciting her elven poetry. On love, of all things. Most of it is flowery, indulgent nonsense, but some parts stick in his mind, rolling about incessantly between his ears. There's a flow to the words that touch something in him, something raw and crude but existing all the same. Stupid, really. A duster's no need of such things. When he goes to sleep he tries to imagine the poor sods he will beat up tomorrow, if only to get those verses out of his head.

It's a dangerous game he plays with himself, and he knows it: it's entirely likely tomorrow he or Leske will be lying dead in a pool of his own blood, with a guardsman only cleaning up the corpse if it happened to die in the Commons. But that's nothing new; that's not what keeps him up at night. What really worries him is just how fragile their partnership is. Certainly now, when they are both constantly on and off Beraht's blacklist, it's easy enough to laugh together about their misfortunes. But if one or the other happened to get in the carta's good graces, or if Rica finally landed herself a nobleman after all… If there's one thing Faren's learned running for the carta, it's that friendships tend to be conditional.

He's avoided Leske for a week before he's finally called out on it.

"Finally landed yourself a girl, huh?" Leske sighs over his mug of ale, and Faren's grip over his own mug tightens. "Leaving poor old Leske alone… figures. Maybe I'll go after that spicy sister of yours, huh?"

"I haven't," he says, before he can stop himself. He stares into his black ale to avoid Leske's eyes. "It's just… it's kind of… I don't think I can go on with our arrangement."

There. He's done it now. He's violated their unspoken rule.

"Oh. Um, that's fine, duster," Leske laughs, somewhat forcibly. "I'm not Beraht; I ain't making you do anything you don't want to."

"Sorry," Faren mumbles, worsening the situation. As if there was something to apologize for; as if there was something between them more than just animal need.

"Uh, whatever. Listen, I gotta go. Say hi to Rica for me," and with that Leske hops off his bar stool and all but runs out the door, leaving Faren with two bills to pay and a headache.

He doesn't miss the confused hurt, the hint of disgust in his oldest friend's face. Sighing, he downs the last dregs of his vile ale, feels the fermented lichen burn the back of his throat. He's crossed their invisible line and he can only hope he hasn't broken their fragile friendship.


End file.
